


At Least One More Day

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24091297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Geralt wanders into the sex pollen forest. Jaskier decides to help with that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 289
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	At Least One More Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaerstyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaerstyne/gifts).



"You don't have to stay," Geralt said, but he was making one of his martyr faces. 

He had several of them - Jaskier had seen them. This was #4, better known as 'I'm going to die if you don't help me but I don't want to ask you, so let's just pretend we don't know that'. Or maybe it was #7, the ever-popular 'I won't die but I might wish I had at some point in the night'. It was hard to tell the difference in the shitty light of a shitty lamp in a shitty room in a shitty inn, and Jaskier wasn't sure it made much of a difference anyway. The fact was: Geralt was making one of his martyr faces, and Jaskier was entirely unimpressed by it.

"Oh, I think we both know I'll be staying," he replied. 

"You should leave," Geralt said. 

Jaskier leaned against the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and he raised his eyebrows pointedly. "You know, it's surprising how often there's a great yawning chasm between _should_ and _will_ ," he said. "I _should_ go, but _will_ I?" He shrugged. "Odds aren't good, if you ask me."

"This is a terrible idea." 

"Well, of course it is. You're going to turn into a lust-crazed sex monster at some point in the next ten minutes and we both know I'm quite hard to resist."

"Then why the fuck are you still here?"

Jaskier sighed. He gestured at him exasperatedly across the poorly-lit room. "Because you're my friend, you stubborn arse," he said. "Because, if I'm honest, I don't have very many of them. And I'm not completely sure whether you're going to die of that erection or not."

Frankly, the way Geralt scowled said he wasn't sure about that, either. It would've been a hell of a way to go, and there might've even been a song in that, but he wasn't about to stand by await his untimely expiry.

"Take your trousers off," Jaskier said, and Geralt frowned. "Look, you can take the rest off too, if you like, but the trousers are really the essential component."

Geralt grimaced so hard it made his weird gold eyes squint and his nose went wrinkly, like he was covered in something's entrails and not a sheen of (now thankfully inert) purple pollen. It actually smelled quite pleasant, Jaskier thought, unlike most entrails he'd encountered. Geralt, however, would have probably chosen the entrails if given the option, but eventually he did start to undress. 

He took off his studded black jerkin and hung it over the post at the end of the bed. He took off his gauntlets and his gloves and he set them down on the dresser. Then he took off his ridiculous black leather doublet - apparently witchers shared a particularly dour tailor with the Nilfgaardian army, from the look of things - and he threw it at the table. He missed, which wasn't exactly like him, and they both peered at it sitting there in a crumpled heap on the dusty inn floor like it had fallen to spite him or else might sprout wings and fly. It hadn't done the former and wouldn't likely do the latter so in the end Geralt returned what pollen-addled tatters were left of his attention to the clothes he was still wearing. 

When Geralt untucked his shirt, Jasker could see his hands were shaking, which didn't seem like an excellent sign. When he pulled his shirt off over his head then threw it after the doublet, Jaskier reached out and caught it like a drunken striptease before it could fall several feet wide of its mark. He quirked a brow and twirled the offending stray item in the air like maybe that was sexy and not just sort of daft, then he wandered over to the table to pick up Geralt's doublet. It seemed Geralt had different ideas, though: the big drugged lug tripped as he tried to take a boot off while still standing up and Jaskier quickly hopped in to steady him, one hand at his bare shoulder and one hand at his trousers' high waist. 

"You're incredibly hot," Jaskier said, then he frowned at himself. "I mean, yes, you're hot." He gestured at him, shirtless as he was, all muscles and scars and silver-white hair. "You're ridiculous, Geralt, really. I mean, look at you. But you're also burning up."

"That's the pollen," Geralt said. "It's in my blood. It won't be long." He clenched his fists at his sides. He clenched his jaw and Jaskier watched the muscles work hard like he was trying to break every tooth in his head. His eyes were wide, and his pupils in them were even wider, and his completely, utterly, nakedly ravenous gaze was trained directly on Jaskier. He'd really never thought he'd see a thing like that and for a second he wondered what the everlasting fuck he thought he was doing; it wasn't as if he was there from some grand sense of altruism, after all. If anything, it was equal parts 1) he'd wanted to do a series of increasingly dirty things with Geralt of Rivia since the day they'd met, and 2) the fact that actually, his life would be a duller place without him. Selfless it was not. More like a convenient confluence of requirements. But he shrugged it off.

"I know I look good enough to eat, Geralt, but I'm not actually edible," Jaskier said, then he gestured at the bed. "Sit down."

"I don't want to eat you," Geralt replied, though the way he said it didn't exactly fill Jaskier with confidence about that fact. "And I don't want to sit down."

Jaskier rolled his eyes so theatrically that the back row of any good theatre could have seen it. "Look, don't get shirty with me just because you wandered into the sex pollen forest in the middle of the night," he said. "I've got no idea what you were doing there and I might ask you about that later but for now, would you sit down before you fall down? I really don't want to put my back out picking you back up."

Geralt huffed, but he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Jaskier knelt and started tugging at one of his boots. 

"I was there looking for you," Geralt said. 

Jaskier glanced up at him. "Well, that's strange because I definitely wasn't in the sex pollen forest at midnight," he replied. "I was in the tavern. We were having a bit of a sing-song. You were late and I was planning to get incredibly drunk." 

He pulled off boot number one and fell on his arse in the process, not entirely unexpectedly. He picked himself up and started on boot number two. 

"No one's making you stay, Jaskier. Fuck off and get drunk."

"For someone so desperate to have sex, you also seem disconcertingly desperate not to."

"I didn't ask you to stay."

Boot number two came off. Jaskier tossed it to the floor. He stood. And no, Geralt hadn't asked him to stay, but that was sort of the point, now, wasn't it? Big witcher Geralt never needed any help, until he needed help, and even then he wouldn't just say so like a normal person.

"Geralt, honestly, I hope you take this in the spirit it's intended but would you please shut your mouth?" He frowned. "And stand up."

Geralt stood. He shut his mouth. And Jaskier unbuttoned his trousers and he peeled them down, which honestly seemed to be the only way to remove them in any logical manner so how Geralt took them off himself was a bit of a mystery. He peeled them down, going down into a crouch along the way, and Geralt's angrily red cock slapped him in the neck and yes, so that wasn't the sexiest thing that had ever happened to him, but while he was down there he turned his head and licked the tip of Geralt's rather painful-looking erection. Geralt came, suddenly and abruptly, with a grunt like he'd just been kneed in the groin, almost doubling over with it in the process. It hit Jaskier's cheek and dripped onto his doublet. He sighed, and he used Geralt's discarded shirt to wipe first his face and then his coat. 

"I've got to admit that was a bit of an anti-climax," he said. He looked Geralt up and down. "Well, it was some kind of climax. Just not what I expected."

Geralt laughed breathlessly. He threw back his head for a moment and then he looked back down at Jaskier, a little more wildly than usual. "Fuck," he said. " _Fuck_. Do you really think that's it?" And Jaskier's chest suddenly felt rather tight.

That was not, in fact, it. Geralt licked his face where his come had just been - Jaskier said, "Oh, that's disgusting," and Geralt said, "Shut up, _you're_ disgusting," and as Jaskier was trying to say, _Really, Geralt, that doesn't make any sense_ , Geralt cut him off with his mouth against his. It wasn't gentle - their teeth clacked together awkwardly and Jaskier swore under his breath, but then Geralt's hands started kneading his still clothed arse and that particular thought seemed to dribble out of his ear like pond water after an impromptu swim. He'd been in enough ponds in his life to know what that was like, for one reason or another, with and without his clothing. 

He was, of course, at that particular moment, still very much in said clothing. He would have liked to have got himself out of it but Geralt rather took charge of things from that point: he took Jaskier's doublet by the collar with both his hands and he pulled. The buttons popped and bounced on the floorboards like little leather-covered hailstones but when Jaskier attempted to complain about it, Geralt kissed him again, hot and hard and unexpected. He'd never been kissed by a witcher before, not that he'd met very many, but that rather put paid to the complaint. 

When Geralt pushed him down face-first onto the mattress, he knew better than to struggle - it seemed they were coming to the lust-crazed sex monster portion of proceedings. When Geralt tore the back of his trousers with an arse-clenching rending of the pricey, nearly-new fabric, he very much didn't put up a fight. He did wish he'd managed to undress before they'd come to the flora-induced fornication part of the evening, but he could always make Geralt sew his buttons back on in the morning and, when he thought about it, it wasn't the first time he'd torn the arse out of a pair of rather nice breeches. It wasn't even the first time he'd done it in the company of his favourite witcher - it had just been under rather different circumstances the first time. 

Geralt pulled him up onto his hands and knees and as soon as the length of Geralt's cock touched the crack of his arse, he came again. Jaskier felt it spurting hotly over his back and soaking into the hem of his recently laundered shirt, then he felt Geralt run his fingers through it and then down, between his cheeks and against his hole, which actually he hadn't used for that particular purpose in some time; it turned out most noblemen around the continent preferred to take than give, surprise of all surprises. He was about to explain that a bit of oil might be more effective, and he had some in a bag across the room, when Geralt pushed his fingers in and Jaskier's knees went decidedly weak. He didn't get the words out, or indeed get any words out, unless you'd count a surprised little, "Oh!" Jaskier wasn't sure he did count it, personally. He was usually so much more eloquent that he found his lack of pithy retort sort of disappointing. 

When Geralt pressed the tip of his cock to Jaskier's hole, he came again. When he pushed inside him, hands at Jaskier's waist, not exactly slowly but not rough enough to really hurt, he came again. When Jaskier braced himself against the headboard so each thrust of Geralt's hips pushed him into him as deep as he could get, he came again. He counted seven times, all in all - he wasn't sure if that was the usual schedule of events for purple poking pollen or if that was a witcher thing, and Geralt really didn't seem to be in a good frame of mind to field queries. Not even when his pace started to slow. Not even when he slipped his big arms around Jaskier's waist and eased him up onto his knees, and off his forearms, and pulled him back against his still heaving chest. It felt like if he'd asked him questions, he might have answered. It felt like maybe the worst of it was over, not that Jaskier had too many complaints. But neither of them said a word.

His cock was still in him, thick and hard, as he ran his hands over the insides of Jaskier's clothed thighs. He was still in him when he eased Jaskier's aching cock out of the remains of his torn trousers. His palm was rough and his fingertips were callused but Jaskier had spent so much time twanging strings that his own weren't exactly soft as a virgin prince's. And when Jaskier came, almost embarrassingly quickly for someone who'd cultivated such inspiring stamina under normal circumstances, Geralt's cock gave one last weak kick inside him as he came again. _Again_. Fucking pollen. Fucking _fucking_ pollen. Then Geralt pulled out, slumped onto his back, and promptly fell asleep. 

"Well, isn't that just typical," Jaskier grumbled, and he gathered himself up off the bed with a faint wince and a disgruntled groan. He wiped himself off on Geralt's shirt again - it really seemed only fair at the time. And his clothes were a mess, so he pulled Geralt's on to go ask if they had another room he could hire for the night. They didn't have another room, and the innkeeper eyed him like he knew the clothes weren't his, though frankly Jaskier thought they looked rather dashingly roguish and fit much better than he'd expected. Jaskier smiled, and he thanked him, and then he went back upstairs again. He stripped naked, got into the inn's one remaining bed that he'd already paid for but that Geralt had apparently claimed, and blew out the lamp at the bedside. Geralt snored on top of the blanket, but the sound was soothingly familiar. Jaskier drifted off into a faintly achy sleep, promising himself a good wash the next day. 

When he woke in the morning, Geralt was lying there watching him with his head propped up on one hand. Jaskier frowned and fussed with his messy hair, and then looked at him more closely; at some point in the night he'd apparently made it underneath the blanket, and one of his knees was nudging Jaskier's calf. He didn't seem in a rush to move it.

"You know, most people find it creepy when someone watches them sleep," he said. 

"Do you?" Geralt replied. His voice was low and slightly rough, like he'd only just woken up himself. Or maybe he'd been awake for an hour, who knew.

"Well, I suppose creepy is relative." He yawned and rubbed his eyes and stretched out underneath the blanket until his back gave a satisfying pop. "Let's be realistic, Geralt; I've seen you do a lot worse."

"Then I'll take that as a positive."

"I won't stop you, but it really wasn't meant as one." He turned onto his side. He propped his head up on one hand. "So, how are we feeling this morning, Mr. You Don't Have To Stay?"

"I've felt better."

"So you've felt worse."

"I suppose I have."

Jaskier grinned. "Then I'll take that as a positive," he said.

He rolled away and stood then, but apparently immediately changed his mind. He paused by the bedside, naked in the sunlight through the windows' not terribly effective shutters. He put his hands on his hips and he frowned at the various piles of clothes still adorning the floor, at his lute on the table and Geralt's sword leaning up by the side of the door, then he turned back to the bed. He climbed back up onto it. He straddled Geralt's hips; he sat back, his slightly sore arse against Geralt's probably sore cock, and made them both wince with it. He half expected Geralt to dump him onto the floor - it wouldn't have been the first time he'd been kicked out of bed, and his ego was prepared for that eventuality, but Geralt just raised his eyebrows at him as he lay there. 

"I was thinking," Jaskier said, as Geralt shifted, resting his bare forearms against his bare thighs and his hands at either hip. "I could have sworn the pollen had worn off by that last part."

"That last part?"

Jaskier took one of Geralt's hands. When Geralt didn't pull it back, he led it down between his thighs and wrapped around his soft cock.

"I was a lot more impressive at the time," he said. "But you get the idea. You seemed...more like yourself."

Geralt gave a faint little squeeze. "Really?" he said.

"Really." He ran his fingertips over Geralt's chest, over muscles and scars and down to his own bare thighs. "So, when are we going to stop pretending you're not wildly attracted to me?" he asked. 

Geralt moved so quickly he couldn't have stopped him if he'd tried. He tipped him down onto his back and propped himself up over him with his purple-silver hair all hanging down around his faintly purple face, both of which he was really going to have to wash at some point if he didn't want everyone in town to know exactly where he'd been. He'd apparently lost the tie out of his hair at some point, though the hair remembered it in a sort of ironed-in ridge that Jaskier reached up and put his fingers to.

"What were you saying?" Geralt asked. 

Jaskier frowned. "I said, when are we going to stop pretending you're not wildly attracted to me?" he said, suddenly about twenty times less sure of himself. 

Geralt smiled. Almost. Geralt very nearly smiled. "It'll always be at least one more day," he replied. 

But when he leaned down and kissed him, even smelling like last night's sex and the day-old pollen that had probably caused it, that didn't sound much like _tomorrow_. It sounded a lot like _right now_.

He never did find out what Geralt had been doing in the sex pollen forest, but he did spend an hour playing his lute in the nude while Geralt sewed the buttons back onto his doublet, cursing under his breath from start to finish. When he told him to join in with the chorus, Geralt flicked a button at him across the room and the fact it pinged off his forehead with rather deadly aim told him all he needed to know about the state of Geralt's post-pollen recovery. Still, even when the sewing was done, they didn't put their clothes back on straight away; Jaskier took the needle from Geralt's hand and set it down on the table so it wouldn't jab any of their more sensitive areas, then he straddled his lap and he kissed him. Geralt didn't seem to mind, but that might just have been because it kept him from singing.

But, the next time they came that way, they took a room with one bed entirely on purpose.


End file.
